


Resolve

by Eadgyth



Series: Of Wardens, Champions, and Inquisitors [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eadgyth/pseuds/Eadgyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The acceptance of heartbreak can be a transformative thing</p><p>Artwork by Loweneal: http://needapotion.tumblr.com/post/124061326916/my-first-tarot-card-commission-i-love-to-paint-in<br/>http://lowenael.deviantart.com/<br/>And commissioned by me</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

The need to run after him was overwhelming. It spiraled like a gale within her, collecting other needs as it went. The need to scream, to grab him by his infuriatingly broad shoulders and shake him, to spin him around sharply and slap him across his high cheekbones, to pound her fists against his lean and well muscled chest, to demand an explanation from his full lips, and to see surprise and apology in his pewter eyes as she gave him a piece of her mind. This and more raged in her as she stood her clenching her jaw and her fists, a weave of frost just barely held in check by her indomitable focus.

He continued to walk away, head hung low and without the usual confident swagger that was so uniquely him. At the mouth of the cave, he paused, and she held her breath, digging her nails deeper into the flesh of her palms. If anything, he seemed to shrink in on himself more, shoulders heaving and hunched before he disappeared into a darkness that even her acute elvhen sight could not pierce.

That was when her knees buckled and she collapsed into the fine gravelly sand at the edge of the pool. She leaned back on her calves and wrapped her arms around herself, clutching at her sides as she began to shake like a leaf in a tempest.

It wasn’t rage that shook her, or grief. It was something between the two, and yet it was so much more. She let her head fall back, a silent mockery of some primal scream. Even as her eyes brimmed with tears, her throat seemed to have swallowed all her sound. And so the tears rolled, thick and quiet, down her cheeks and the trail of her neck, pooling in her collarbone and leaving wet spots in her shemlen garments. She was never sure how long she knelt there, shaking as her emotions stormed through her.

When the shaking finally stopped, when tears seemed to have dried, she stood gingerly, her legs stiff and prickling with needley pain. The moon was hanging low, peaking just above the back of one of the hart statues that stood as silent sentinels on either side of the pool. Without thought, she shed the skin of the Inquisition and tossed aside the wrap of her people as she had let go of her vallaslin, and waded into the pool.

The water made her gasp, a thick hoarse sound, that startled her with its depth of pain. It was a sound so foreign to her that she almost didn’t believe it had come from her mouth. She had not reacted like this when Cullen had brought her the news of her clan’s demise after all.

Forcing herself forward, she used her magic to keep herself from freezing, but not enough to dull the chill edge the water held. She walked to the back of the pool, plunging herself under the roar of the waterfall. Her finger went to her head and undid the elaborate braids that keep the unruly mass of auburn waves out of her face. It sheeted around her, pulled down by the pounding hands of the water that drummed over her body. She let the falls batter her, not caring if the strength of the water left her bruised, at least then her skin would reflect the damage that had been done to her heart.

Clutching her left hand against her chest, she steadied herself against the slick wall that backed the falls. There was a story, she did not remember where she heard it or if it was Dalish or shemlen in origin, but it came to her as she stood, hoping the falls would drive away her pain, her anger, and her grief. In the story, a beautiful young maiden falls in love with an equally dashing young man, and as is the way of such tragic tale, the young man dies, leaving his love alone. The maiden, as the tale goes, locks herself away in a tower for a year and a day, speaking not a word, not even her closest retainers. When she emerges, it is as if winter walks in her wake. Her skin sparkles as if frosted, her once raven black hair has blanched to the white of freshly fallen snow, and her eyes are the cold, hollow, azure of the heart of a glacier. From then on the maiden is known as the Woman without Mercy, for joy no longer burns in her heart. Her people flee as an unnatural winter overtakes the land. And though it is said her kingdom can no longer be found, some say you can hear her passionless laughter echoing off the frozen wastelands far to the south.

It wasn’t until now that she finally understood the full extent of the tragedy and caution in the tale. She could not afford to lose herself in this storm. She had to weather it and find a way to move on. As a mage, it was not lost on her that she was putting herself in grave danger by indulging in the tempest of her emotions. The Veil was thin here after all.

Slowly she walked back to the shore, using a stronger weave of fire to steam the water droplets from her skin and warm her slightly numb from. She donned her clothing again, hesitating a moment as she weighed her small dagger in her right hand. Thin and sharp, she usually kept it tucked in her boot, the last line of her defenses should her magic ever fail her. Her left hand ghosted over her now empty cheek bones and brow before carding through her still damp hair.

As she tightened her grip on her dagger an image of Solas holding her back against his chest, his nose buried in her hair flashed briefly in her mind. She could not let go of her love for him. He would always be her _vhenan_ , there would be no other, but she could let go of this and perhaps gird herself against more storms to come. With a shift movement that left no room for doubt or regret, she began to hack away at her almost waist-length hair.

* * *

 

Varric had been watching the gates of Skyhold for what seemed like an age. Chuckles had shown up two days ago and he growled, literally growled at anyone who bothered to ask the apostate hobo where the Inquisitor was or why he looked like a freshly beaten puppy. Varric decided to let the rest of Inquisition handle the now pricklier elf, and stationed himself within the guardhouse of the keep.

It wasn’t until Cole appeared next to him that he knew the lone figure at the end of the causeway was her.

"Andraste’s flaming knickers, Kid, can’t you just walk like a normal person?“

Cole didn’t seem to notice him, pale cornflower blue eyes staring straight ahead, "She’s patched, cracked and bleeding, but strong and sad, so very, very sad, it hurts to feel, to think, to breathe yet she does. Feet placed one in front of the other bringing her back to where her home rests. So much to do and no time to mourn.” 

The sinking feeling that had been treading water at the top of Varric’s chest finally drowned. He knew something had happened and suspected it was bad given how Chuckles was acting, but now listening to what Cole rattled off, well…nug shit.

When she finally made it to where he stood with Cole, Varric didn’t know where to look first. Her face was bare, her vallesin, or whatever the Dalish called those tattoos they all wore on their faces, was gone. On top of that her hair was cropped short and jagged around her head. But it was her eyes that had Varric sucking in his breath as a lump formed in the pit of his stomach. They were dead, dark, lifeless pools of green.

"Oh, Branches, what did he do to you?“

She looked down at him pinching her eyes shut briefly and shaking her head, her mouth drawing into a thin and wan line, " _Banal_ , Varric. Nothing I didn’t also do to myself.”

And then she walked past him, and he couldn’t help the ominous feeling that even if they finally defeated Corypheus and seal the Breach, nothing would ever be right in the world again.

**_Nug_** _shit_.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Great Panacea Time is Not

“Branches?”

Isara looked up from the mountain of paperwork sitting on her desk, “Hmm?”

Varric scrubbed the back of his neck, “Shit, and I thought I had problems.”

“What?” Isara looked over the piles of books, Inquisition reports, and correspondence that had become her life since the Breach was healed, “You mean all this? It's just my typically Tuesday roundup.”

“Really?” Varric gave her a wide grin, reminding Isara of the one he had given Cassandra all those years ago when the Inquisition was no more than a Divine Wirt and an idea. “Because I always thought Tuesdays were all about blood magic and demon summoning, with the occasional Chantry explosion and Conclave destruction thrown in there for good measure, of course.”

“The day is still young, Varric, I wouldn't discount it yet. I could be fatally wounded by a brace of paper cuts after all,” Isara let herself smile at the joke, but she didn't laugh. It was a rare that she did more than give a small smile these days. Still, the smile seemed to satisfy Varric and she was grateful for that bit of peace. At least until the dwarf opened his mouth again.

“Good one, Branches,” Varric chortled, deep and thrumming as if his laugh was trying to rattle the rafters of her bedchamber. And then he sobered, walking over and planting himself in front of her desk. “So, your Inquisitorialness, the Commander and I are curious, how much longer are you going to sit up here pinning away for Chuckles?”

Isara took a deep breath. She'd tackled versions of this question for weeks now. Dorian had lectured her on it; Vivienne had barely held her disdain in check; Sera was just, well, Sera about the whole thing; Bull had given her several reasons to doubt her trust and faith; Blackwall had simply tried to encourage her to let go of her attachment. Cassandra and Cole were the only two of her inner circle who had held their tongues and offered their own versions of comfort with the stipulation that it was there for the taking when Isara was ready to accept such offers of friendship. Since none of her advisors had pestered her with such questions, she had assumed that they too were giving her the space she so desperately craved. If Varric had convinced Cullen to attach his name to the dwarf's latest assault, then her advisors were far more concerned about her recent behavior than they had let on.

Sitting back into her chair, Isara rubbed her bare temples before folding her hands in her lap, “Varric, how much do you know about Dalish culture?”

“Honestly,” Varric shrugged, "not much, aside from the few things Merrill shared, and the stuff I picked up from you and Chuckles, that is.”

Isara slowly let out a breath and gestured to the pair of armchairs that now sat in front of her fireplace, “Take a seat Varric and hold that tongue of yours, because I am only going to explain this once.”

The dwarf cocked his head, and Isara could see the barely held question dancing on the edge of his half-parted lips, “Go sit, Varric. I'm going to need a drink to get through this.”

Thankfully, Varric closed his mouth and went to sit in one of the chairs. That he chose the one farthest from the desk just made Isara's heart clench and she had to bite her tongue. So she busied herself with decanting some of the Dalish _manise_ that Josephine was able to secure for her from Clan Ashara. The vaguely golden liquid did not have the same intensity as the _manise_ once made by her clan, but Isara welcomed the comfort of the familiar. She poured a smaller glass for Varric before walking over to the empty armchair.

That Varric's eyes had been upon her during the entire interval, she was sure. That he had been watching her with a drawn and weary expression caused her eyes to flash open wide as she walked over to the other chair by the hearth. It wasn't a face he wore often, and Isara often suspected that if Stroud had not died at Adamant, she would have never been privy to it in the first place.

She sat slowly, handing Varric his drink, which he accepted with a silent nod. Rolling the glass over her lips, Isara took a small sip of the fiery liquid as she looked away from Varric's concern and into the fire. Once the _manise_ had spread its flame through her limbs, Isara began to talk.

“There is a word, _nas'falon_ , that the Keeper would use when describing how Dirthamen and Falon'Din could be twins, yet not be physically twins. Literally the word roughly translates as soul friend, but it carries more weight than that. My sister, may Falon'Din guide her, was literally the other half of my sal, my physical soul. But...,” Isara sighed taking another sip of her drink, letting it roll over and around her tongue before swallowing, as if it might dull the ache of saying his name out loud again, “Solas was literally the other half of my spirit, even without everything that passed between us, he would still be my _nas'falon_.”

Isara felt her tongue become leaden and her eyes tears, “It was an enjoyable side benefit and a gift that he turned out to be my _sal’shiral_ as well. Nothing can take the place of that Varric, not even time.”

They finished their drinks in silence, and Isara allowed two tears to roll freely down her cheeks and drip from her jaw before wiping the rest quickly away. Varric never said another word to her on the subject after that, and much to Isara's relief, no one else did either.

**Author's Note:**

> When I get stuck on my Alistair Cousland fic, I write about Solas and my Lavellans. I posted this on my Tumblr as my Solas/Lavellan works are mostly writer's block inspired drabbles, I run under Niamaduir there.  
> http://niamaduir.tumblr.com/


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